


incognito

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Triquetra Four [3]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Chair Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Improper use of telekinesis, Sexual Metaphors, Tropical dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: While staying home during Late Autumn/Early Winter 2020, a sapphire bathrobe-clad Macy finds Harry upstairs trying on a new pair of mail-order glasses. Improper use of telekinesis and Hacy smut ensue…
Relationships: Harry Greenwood & Macy Vaughn, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Series: The Triquetra Four [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952074
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	incognito

Incognito

_A sleeveless blouse the color of morning moss, speckled with emerald sequins, entered her mind’s eye, her hand sweeping across, brushing upon its textured feel as she packed, re-packed, and packed ever more, for what she understood to be a sojourn in the verdant tropical weather of yore, as she crept across her bedroom toward the mysterious French door, stretched wide open for her daring escape—_

_Down, down, downward still—_

_Twenty or so ladder rungs, she estimated—_

_To the uneven brick cobblestones below; she stared upward, transfixed by the high pillared walls, inveigled in creeping ivy at turns of the corner, light pooling beneath her feet, scenery morphing to a glass enclosure, palm trees ensnared within—or was it she who was trapped, a porcelain cup of acrid coffee atop a worn workbench her only form of sustenance?_

_For a moment—a tropical epiphany—a split-second augenblick—she found herself hovering above the topmost point of the island’s crevassed cliff, beyond which lay a hiking path glistening with well-placed tealights, peach-pearl sand beckoning as the aqua waves curled and foamed, blending into cerulean, then to damask and apricot in the sun-soaked sunrise that followed. She sighed in ecstasy, inhaling deeply of the cinnamon-spiced air all around her. Now this was how life was meant to be lived—wild, wondrous, and free—_

Blinking, the pleasant dream faded away, to be no more. Macy sighed. _And what a beautiful paradise it had been._

Ever since the world had shut down back in March, she’d been experiencing fever dreams after never-ending fever dreams, that took her well outside the confines of Vera Manor’s domesticated bubble, hurtling toward palm trees and tropical fruit and all that was paradise. _An island—far, far away._

 _Once upon a time_ …a voice spoke within her head… _there was a mystical healer from a faraway land_ …but she shook those dreams from her mahogany curls, banishing those invasive thoughts from her soporific psyche, instead summoning her sapphire blue bathrobe, which she donned in the next instant. Clutching its silken edges, she rose from her bed, reluctantly commencing yet another Groundhog Day morning. With each day blurring into its repetitive successor, it was near impossible to tell what day, time, or even month it was, were it not for her Smartphone calendar.

She glanced toward the bedroom door, held open by a vintage suitcase from the upstairs attic. _Always_ open as of late. Confinement had not been especially kind to her evening slumber. Most nights, if she closed the door, she would awaken in the wee hours of twilight, _gasping_ , as though suffocating, with the unpleasant feeling of being buried alive within the Vera Manor walls. As if _…trapped._

_And where was Harry in all of this—monochrome monotony—wanderlust confusion—solitary isolation?_

_Ping!_ Macy glanced at her phone. _Upstairs. Trying on…_ her eyes grew wide… _his brand-new eyeglasses._

 _Of course,_ given that his first pair broke en route to Seattle. If she were remotely honest with herself, a bit of her soul did too, recalling how he’d looked in them months upon months earlier…

 _“Warby Parker, you’re a saint,”_ she whispered to herself as she departed her bedroom, not before applying a bit of magenta lip color, which she tossed to her nightstand with a _clatter_ , her feet now padding through the expansive echo chamber of a corridor, eventually traversing the rickety stairs that led to the attic door, her fingers tapping the railing in anticipation of _what_ , and _who_ , she would find upstairs.

_A memory flashed before her eyes._

_“Incognito,” he’d said, with the familiar creamy tone of his highbrow British lilt, as she held back a gasp, for the sake of propriety, as her two sisters were mere feet away. Those dark hinges, curved artfully around each ear of his, each Auris, tight ebony-hued rods emanating forthwith, interconnected with a pair of laser-cut lenses, to create the appearance of an extremely worldly, stylish man-about-town._

_“Take me…” she murmured to herself, her mouth falling open by more than a centimeter._

_“What was that?” Harry turned toward her. Shit, did I say that out loud?_

_“N-Nothing…” stammered she, determined to stay focused on the infiltration operation at hand—was it Viralis this time? The Hilltones’ conductor? One look—_ one _look at those glasses—and suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter anymore…_

Sharply inhaling, she found herself mid-stairwell, peeking through the jutted opening, that infinitesimal _extra_ space, where the door’s base met—but did not quite _kiss_ —the sturdy oaken flooring. Through this vantage point, she lay in wait, wide-eyed _minx_ though she were, silently observing as a familiar figure sat in his faded fabric armchair, cradling a 5x9 inch-or-so cardboard box, stroking its periphery, as he attempted to find a hint as to its opening.

_Mail-order glasses were not a thing in 1930s England._

She knew that well enough, as she watched in rapt fascination, his coarse-but-steady fingers locating the perforated nub, as he pulled, _tugged,_ watching it expand in a ribbon across its hardy exterior, before springing wide open, revealing its ocular contents within. He plucked the object from its soft-tissued enclosure, examining it with the studied skill of an artist, checking every angle to determine whether there were any irregularities—any seeming _imperfections._

Finding none, he felt its sides, metallic, possibly an amalgamation of a plasticine composite—whatever it was, he knew it suited his visage, as he’d tried it on digitally via his Smartphone some weeks before. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a— _swift sapphire blur_?—but donning his oculars, found, perhaps, it had all been in his imagination, oblivious to the fact a certain witch was pressed up between the half-open door and the bare attic entry walls, hardly daring to make a sound.

And before she realized what was happening, what _either_ of them comprehended was unfolding before them, her gaze fell upon a certain slate-hued high-collared winter jacket, draped across Harry’s lap as if for warmth, as a single sleeve reached forward by way of witchly machinations, brushing, _whisperingly_ , against his innermost wrist, once— _twice—_ then _three_ times—as the man in question continued his study of the lenses which occupied his attention at present with his other arm, altogether unaware, a fly in the web of the most elegant and beguiling spider imaginable.

Realizing such movements were in vain, said sleeve traveled down, _downward still_ , marking the edge-lined corner of the seat cushion, before ambling its way toward the beginning of his outer thigh, clad in stylish slacks, even at this early a morning. _Even when every day was identical to the day before it, and the one following, too,_ Macy mused from her hideaway several feet away, as she imagined—for a split second—the woolen coat’s occupier, what it must feel to have the rough brush of stubble against her cheek—even if Harry were too fastidious to _have_ a five o’clock shadow—as she suppressed a gasp, and continued her activities once more.

_A veritable Georges Bizet Toreador-esque tango-for two, tangled in infinity symbols._

Her fingers created curvatures of the cool air from whence she stood, as Harry began to shift where he sat. _These glasses,_ he mused to himself, _were certainly…something._ He examined the base of the lenses. _Perhaps they were imbued with…something mystical? Or scientific…hormones of the sensual sort?_ He shook his head. _Poppycock._ Advanced as 2020 technology was, Harry was certain that vision acuity and seductive compounds were _not_ a thing—

As he inhaled sharply, the woolen sleeve delved _deeper,_ seeking—then _finding_ —his highest point of his thigh, upon which it traveled parallel to his very _crux,_ which was rapidly hardening with each intake of oxygen. _Oh, heavens—_ oh _my—_ he swallowed hard, as a familiar perfume of cinnamon sharpened his senses.

“ _You—_ ” he gasped, between subconscious movements, spotting the telltale sapphire robe once more. “ _I should’ve known—"_ as she stepped forward past the threshold from her clandestine post, the full length of her outfit shimmering before him as she made her way _to_ him, only glancing back once, to lock the door behind them before meeting his heady stare. “You seem…” he searched for the word, “… _different._ ”

“Oh, Harry, I _am_ different—” her panther-like movement tantalized him, _tortured_ him, as she made her way, _languorously_ so, sweeping his woolen coat aside in one look, hitting the opposite wall; placing the cardboard box (somewhat _gentler_ this time), on a nearby antique table, she alit atop him, straddling his form, causing him to emit a groan that he himself had not realized he was making, until he sensed her fingers upon his lips mere seconds later. _Shhhh._

Whispering in his ear, her sumptuous mahogany curls draped themselves over her supple neck, spilling onto his solid muscular shoulder. _“Do you like it?”_

 _“Gods, yes,”_ he murmured in response, their lips— _tongues—_ meeting in veritable cacophony as she gyrated her hips toward his fast-stiffening self. _Sweet Hera, the friction was absolutely delicious—_ as he gripped her curvaceous behind, luxurious and lovely.

Between _langulaire_ swirls of tongue against inner cheek, Macy thought she heard him speak once more—disentangling her pillowed lips from his heady own, she angled her visage in a beguilingly carnal manner. _What is it?_

“Divest your robe, _Dr. Vaughn,”_ he repeated the phrase as his tongue met the nape of her neck, creating humid hearts where there previously had been none, fluid infinities where only doom had dwelled, shimmering brightness to her capricious, coppery sensuality. _Or so he imagined, in this fantasy of theirs—_

Between their repeated moans and frenzied kisses, Macy shook off the robe in question, though it had spent several seemingly long seconds tangled around her deep olive-hued limbs. Soon, the silken fabric was sent flying.

“Why _Macy,_ ” Harry exclaimed, a wolfish glint in his eye. “You’ve _nothing_ underneath—” She blushed despite herself. _True, she was, undeniably, naked as a jaybird._ But her resolve returned mere moments later, as she combed her fingers through his chestnut hair, which smelled of Old Spice and beautiful bygone eras.

His gaze migrated southward to her semilunar orbs, rotund and ready for his touch, as he drew his attention to one—observing the make and feel of its _plush_ pliability, taking one dusky rose nub within his mouth, sucking noisily as she thrashed—“ _Oh, yes!”—_ her manicured nails embedding themselves against the crook of his neck as he gave a start, before paying due homage to the other. “ _Take me_ ,” she all but cried.

Contemplating his next erogenous move, he realized that—by all accounts—it certainly appeared that Dr. Macy Vaughn— _his_ Macy, to be exact—had a _thing_ for glasses. A _fetish?_ He understood the word’s definition to be but a craze, fixation, preoccupation—veering into unyielding obsession. _Nothing wrong with that,_ he surmised, so long as it wasn’t hurting anyone. Perhaps it was a manifestation of pure, unadulterated _need_.

And as needs went—which varied magnificently depending on the mood, hour of day, phase of the moon in each lunar cycle, he had been conscientious, diffident, _deferential, devoted_ over the past months to address hers— _theirs—_ but— _oh my,_ he mused to himself, sensing his nether region growing even more rock-hard as he clasped the stolid post of the armchair’s side to balance himself. _Regain his senses. Take heed, and all that. How had he never noticed this before? And the telekinetic prowess?_

_It seemed that Macy Vaughn needed him. And he would certainly seek to address said need._

He mentally reminded himself to investigate this new phenomenon further—the _glasses—_ the remote _telekinesis_ —as he became aware of a sudden oxygenated breeze _down there,_ for his love had taken it upon herself to unzip the front of his slacks, batting his hand away until she shrieked in frustration, the zipper having gotten stuck—

And he took over, placing his hand over hers, drawing circles upon circles, infinities and triquetras upon her sweet sun-swept skin, their curves and divots soothing her, the two-loops and tri-loops of his digits _calming_ her exasperated nerves, until, with a smaller pout, she acquiesced. Seconds later, after shifting his weight, he freed himself from his fabric confinement, his pants tumbling to the floor.

 _Ready?_ He positioned himself _just so_ , as she hovered above, grazing the tip of _him._ She nodded. _Ready._ In the next instant, she plunged, impaling herself on his outward embodiment of corporeal _masculinity—_ that which made him… _him,_ absorbing the heated rod within, as they gasped aloud at the sensation. The incantation _mortar to the pestle, plinth to the pedestal_ entered his mind as he reveled in the sheer _fit_ and _form_ of his love, soaking in her intoxicating scent.

 _Why glasses?_ Harry wondered briefly as she threw her head back, curls flying, his attention immediately thereafter riveted by the entrancing witch positively _riding_ him for dear life— _fuck!—oh—yes—_ as she—as _they—_ established a budding rhythm, a promising upward crescendo toward looming ecstasy—rapture, bliss, _elation_ — _call it what one would_ —as an achingly sensual tension emanated deep from his _within_ to the time of her gasps and bold, frontward thrusts.

_And an idea occurred to him._

“ _Maybe,”_ he leaned forward, capturing her curls in a single grasp, “you’re a _naughty_ postdoc who’s been squirreling my potions away,” he murmured in a low growl, paying heed to Macy’s nails gripping him ever-tighter as he continued. “ _Lying_ about their whereabouts—”

“Who, _me?”_ she exclaimed, though breathlessly, her eyes never once leaving his. _Keep going…_ she seemed to say wordlessly, as she seized upon his neck, caressing, soon evolving by turns to covert kisses among the dirtiest of purrs and heated mutterings.

 _“—_ Performing _all_ manner of _cheeky—_ ” a slap to her, its echoes reverberating throughout the chamber, “—things,” his grip tightened upon her hips as she nodded furiously, a sensual blush blossoming upon her visage as he sensed the lifting of a few pieces of parchment—a couple of rattling photo frames in the distance, perhaps a windowpane or two…

“And _I got caught_ ,” Macy added, gasping, continuing the sultry, altogether _scientific_ visualization, “—in the darkroom—” as she wound her legs tighter around his torso—

“—Doing _all_ sorts of naughty—” he thrusted after each word, as if for bodily emphasis, “ _torrid—deeds—"_ as their pleasure escalated, enveloping the pair, swiftly ascending toward mutual pointillist apex of the _physical, bodily_ sort—

“ _Fuck,_ yes _—"_

“ _Incognito—”_ he hissed, beginning to pulse in tandem to her own silken-smooth flutterings, acceding control, _accelerating, hastening, hurrying,_ fists clenched about her rounded hips in frenzied movement as she screamed, his essence coating her warm welcoming _within,_ mere moments later _._

Several minutes of sensitivity approaching sensibility passed as the pair laid together, unmoving, absorbing the aftereffect shockwaves, the vibratory humming of their skin thrumming with leftover electrified energy as Macy reluctantly disentangled herself from him, summoning her sapphire robe once more, stepping over fallen photo frames and dusty parchment. Walking away, her silhouetted shadow kissed the shaded entryway hall as she turned with a subtle, utterly _sublime_ expression.

“I _really_ like your glasses Harry—”

Before departing for the kitchen to check on the cinnamon spiced rum buns baking in the oven, leaving a gape-mouthed Harry in her wake, magenta lip color tattooed across his neck.


End file.
